


witching hour

by Anonymous



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arkham Asylum, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, First Meetings, M/M, Mental Illness, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Professor Jonathan Crane, Scarecrow's Fear Toxin (DCU), Suicide mentions, friendship... or so they think, partly inspired by codotverse because how could it not be, through-the-years ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:02:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23267404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The first time Eddie Nigma sees the Scarecrow, it's through three inches of bulletproof glass. He's suddenly glad to be in a cell.
Relationships: Jonathan Crane & Edward Nygma, Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma
Comments: 39
Kudos: 87
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was dragged kicking and screaming into this ship, and I have my fellow ao3 writer [redacted] to thank (or rather, blame). thank you for putting up with me showing up late to every party. 
> 
> both the characterizations and the relationship here are partly inspired by the amazing @waiting4codot on tumblr. i am in awe. that is all. 
> 
> lastly, this work can be triggering. mental illness, anxiety, depression, suicide and childhood abuse are mentioned and/or explored. there's a lot of troubling themes here, so please read at your own risk. 
> 
> don't translate or post my works to other sites. if you're reading this via an app, please read it on ao3 instead. #

In the night, underneath rational thought and underneath logic, there is a raw, primal force. The gut-wrenching sensation of eyes watching you in the dark; the cold sweat in your hair, the shortness of breath, the crushing weight on your chest. The power of it. He tries to laugh it off in the mornings, sticks to patterns and to what he knows, understands to be true; but he can't, not really, in solitude the smile dies on his lips.

Reality is something fluid, for him. In the night, it's not the same thing it is during the day. Knowing that doesn't help. Repeating it doesn't help. He builds his disguise, brick by brick, but his mind doesn't grant him the relief (punishment) of dissociation. He feels connected, tethered to his body in a very real way, and when he feels he is slipping, he breathes deeply. Takes himself down just that small amount, just enough not to float away.

He hates himself for it. He hates his own inability to give up. He keeps going. 

He builds. 

*

Arkham; free housing for the criminally insane. His first time around, they diagnose him with OCD. This is inaccurate, of course, but in Arkham all a diagnosis really is is an excuse for electroshock therapy. 

"Hey," he hears on the first evening, coming from the vent, "Hey, psst."

He gets down on his hands and knees and peers through the slits, trying to make out anything in the darkness. He can't.

"Hey, is he in?" the voice whispers, "Is he in? Did you see?"

"Who?" Eddie whispers back, glancing at the corridor to check for oncoming guards. 

"Him," the voice is frantic, now, "The scary man." 

"How should I know?" he hisses.

"You didn't look? Why didn't you look?"

Didn't know. Made a mistake. He closes his eyes and inhales slowly, tries to get oxygen to his brain. The asylum is a labyrinth. He's good at those. It's a map of corridors and cameras and guard rotations. He will memorize them, and he will be out, it's only a matter of time. 

He's not--helpless. He struggles, but more often than not, he wins. 

Arkham is all... brick walls and buzzing fluorescents. He quickly learns there are underground levels--with cells like cages, floodable floors wired to electrocute the prisoners--patients, that is--en masse. 

He knows this because his first attempt to break out earns him a taser to the face. Something hits him over the back of the head and the world goes black; his last coherent thought is that he's in trouble. 

And he realises, at that point, that maybe he is a little late to the party. That maybe Gotham, who she is at her core, is even darker and crueler than he had hoped. That figures like the Joker are not so much an anomaly as a personification of a city already rotten to the core. 

It scares him, privately. He's here because he wants to be somebody. Be seen. In this city, where people have seen everything, they won't look twice at who he is underneath--they won't care, and this suits him. He will make them care about the parts of him he controls; the image he weaves of himself. He will not have a past, he will not be defined by blood or history or stereotype. Gotham, he decides - clinging to the tiles as men in scrubs hose him down hard enough to bruise - is his. 

It's true, he's earned this. A string of robberies--for the funds, if he's being honest, but on brand in terms of leaving a riddle at each crime scene, leaving the police chasing their own tails for nearly five months. He is determined to put on a proper show when he gets out, perform for them. 

They put him in an isolation bubble, for 'observation'. What that means is he's stuck in a bulletproof glass container about the shape and size of a merry-go-round, in which he is visible from most angles (spare for when he hides behind the shaft down the middle). They usually put meta-humans in here. He's a little flattered--a little tingly--until the first time he needs to use the bathroom. 

He decides he doesn't like Arkham.

From what he picks up listening to the guards, there are those who treat it like home away from home. That won't be him. This is ugly, and dehumanizing, and he hates his uniform and the shifts and the cameras. He hates lights-out. 

Motionless, leaned comfortably against the back of his glass bubble, he plots his escape once more. Properly, this time. He has always had unwavering faith in his own ability to do better. 

The distant whine of the alarm brings him out of his thoughts. He looks up. The first thing he realises is that there are no guards in sight; he immediately checks the cameras, but they're on, blinking red. Well; not ideal, but he'll take it. He's not in place where he'll turn down a perfectly good distraction. He heads for the shaft in the middle of his glass cage, wondering if he can get it open fast enough; just as he gets to it, red lights flick on overhead, and the deafening roar of a siren blasts from the corrior. Whatever's happened, it's causing the entire asylum to go into lockdown. He curses under his breath, then out loud, slamming his fist against the metal door. 

He realises there is another sound, a steady murmur underneath the blaring alarm. 

Screaming.

He looks over his shoulder, into the corridor. Why are so many people screaming at once? Those aren't the sounds of a riot; it's raw, animalistic screeching, the pure terror coming from a hundred throats at once. For a long couple of seconds, Ed can't focus on anything else, and that is why he doesn't hear the footsteps. 

He does hear the scythe. Its shrill, metallic scrape against the wall sends chills up his arms; he inhales and holds his breath, going completely still. 

The figure stalks into view.

Ed presses himself against the shaft in the centre of his cell and slides down, his legs giving out under him. He can't move; he just sits there, knees bent, shoulders flush to the metal, mouth dry. He can see the heavy, thick cloud of fear toxin trailing behind the thing, creeping up the walls, almost as if it has a mind of its own. 

The figure turns and looks at him. The mask's eye holes are pitch black, but he can feel their gaze on him as clearly as touch. He can't breathe. 

The gas billows against the glass, flows into the room around his cell and fills it. Eddie can see it, only now slipping in through the vent. He looks back at the figure, but it's already turned away, apparently having decided that bulletproof glass isn't worth the effort.

He can smell the gas, now. He only smells it for a second; a putrid, sickly sweet scent that makes him think of rot and mold, and then he's choking, desperately writhing, clutching at his own shoulders for comfort. 

He doesn't know why, at first. The physical reaction comes a split second before the actual hallucinations.

Then, he does know. 

*

Ironically, the hallucinations aren't all your standard PowerPoint of his father beating him and his mother watching TV with empty eyes. Scarecrow's fear gas doesn't make you aware of your issues with emotional intimacy; it shows you horrors, actual, blood-dripping, meaty horrors--and Eddie sees the Scarecrow. 

He sees him taller, lankier, less like something that might hide a person underneath and more like sticks and straw and a murder of crows pecking at his skin, gouging out his eyes. He stands over Ed, staring down at him, giant and terrifying.

And it's enough. 

Because Eddie can't stand the moment before. The loss of balance before the fall; the silence before something is said that can't be taken back. The possibility that this frightening, godly thing, with its entire attention focused sorely on him, will turn away and deem him unworthy of death. 

The crows surround him like a blur of inky black, sending searing pain through his entire body, making him scream and sob until he is nothing but a shape curled on the floor, his arms wrapped around his head. 

*

It's safe to say that Scarecrow's fear toxin is the best distraction there is. 

It's better than Joker's laughing gas, because it doesn't actually kill people unless it's a special blend--or applied in large quantities. Eddie prefers to avoid killing (not out of the goodness of his heart, mind you, but if you kill people every time you're seen in public, it just doesn't have the same effect when you really mean it). 

The problem is that Dr Jonathan Crane is now, apparently, sane. He was declared as such after five months in Arkham Asylum spent undergoing some new form of therapy. Eddie doesn't know exactly what that entailed, but he knows Crane absolutely cannot settle for the life of a college professor; it's plain wrong. It's wrong in a way he can't accurately describe, it goes beyond wastefulness; Crane is the Scarecrow, just as much as Eddie is the Riddler. They're not costumes you hang up once you're done. You're never done. 

More importantly, though, Crane is something of a two-birds-one-stone kind of deal--because in addition to having invented the fear toxin, he's also a licensed psychiatrist. 

Predictably, he teaches at Gotham University. A second chance, and proof that therapy works--or so the headlines say. Eddie dresses plainly, for him, and hides his face behind God-awful tortoise shell glasses. With his hair mussed and falling over his forehead, he thinks he passes for a student, but he sits in the back row of the auditorium just in case; he doesn't actually think the professor might recognise him, not after whatever they did to him in Arkham, but there is a certain intensity about Crane that makes him want to keep his distance... while remaining in the same room as him at all times. 

The lecture hall begins to fill up. People are pooling in, and he has to assume at least a fifth of them are reporters in disguise. Ed keeps his head down throughout, listening to Crane's level, scratchy voice, trying to make sense of the dips and calm pauses, the slight raises that glide along each sentence. He tries to match him to the thing that looked at him in Arkham, the thing that let him go not out of mercy, but disregard.

He can't. 

When it's over, he heads to Crane's desk. The doctor is standing behind it, packing his books; no students have approached him, and none seem to plan on it. 

Eddie clears his throat. 

"Hm? What?" Crane asks without looking up.

He doesn't know what to say, somehow.

"I enjoyed your lecture, Professor," he pipes up with a smile, and Crane looks up at him sharply.

He has firm, dark eyes that are sunken into his skull and partly covered with paper-thin eyelids. His hair is a dark, curly mess, with the first signs of grey sprouting from just one spot; he looks like he went with his closest approximation of clean-shaven.

Ed slowly removes his own glasses and tucks them neatly over the collar of his shirt.

"We met once before," he reminds lightly, because despite the fierce glare he still isn't sure if Crane recognises him, "Edward. Nigma."

Crane actually raises an eyebrow.

"Didn' realise the Riddler was a student at Gotham University. Remind me, when did we meet?"

"Arkham." 

"Wouldn't remember that," Crane looks down into his organiser. 

Eddie was vaguely expecting to be sent away with a kick to the rear the first time, but Crane seems calm. This is promising. 

"Though I wasn't broken, I'm in pieces. I can be solved, but never fixed." 

"Listen," Crane looks at him pitifully, "I don't much like riddles."

"Come on, try it." 

"Jigsaw puzzle." He keeps his eyes trained on Ed now, like something has drawn his attention. "So, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to help... rearrange me," Ed sits on the desk, joining his hands in his lap, "I do well for myself most of the time, but sometimes, I struggle."

"What did they diagnose you with at Arkham?"

"OCD, but I have a feeling--"

"Yeah, it's not just that, never is," Crane sighs and clamps his organiser shut, "But I'm not a practicing psychiatrist anymore. Find someone else." 

"No," Ed says, too forcefully, and catches himself in it, "No. I'd like it to be you."

Crane looks about the empty lecture hall. Then back at Ed.

"And what do I have to gain?" he asks. 

"Money," Ed shoots back, "Obviously. I'll pay you."

"Oh," Crane says, sounding a little surprised under the flatness. 

"This gig can't be paying well," Ed gestures about the room, "And you don't have your job at Arkham. So, name a price." 

Crane's lip curls in thought, and Ed can't help the feeling that he misses having this outlook on reality--where money isn't an issue. Where money is something you can just take from others, and get away with it.

"I'd have to think about it, Mr Nigma," he says finally. 

"Oh, nuh-uh," Ed chuckles, fully aware he can and will win here, "We start now, or the deal's off."

"Then it's off," Crane snaps. 

They stare at each other in startled silence; Crane, looking like he already misses the money, and Ed, who hadn't accounted for stubbornness. 

"Call me when this bites you in the ass," Eddie smacks his card down on the desk. It's an ace with one of his numbers scribbled across it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me your thoughts! thanks for reading :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! some disclaimers: big canon divergence (which I'll add to the tags). I should also note that this fic isn't set in codotverse, but was influenced by it, and I hope that's alright. please mind the tags!

The phone, marked CRANE on the back, rings approximately two weeks later. 

Three days after that, Eddie is on his way to what Crane had insisted should be a 'neutral location', which--in this case--is a scarcely populated coffeehouse. Because it's free, and probably because Crane gets free coffee out of it, too. Eddie doesn't mind. With little else on his plate at the moment, he has the money for it.

When he sees Crane there, already waiting, something sinks in his stomach. He was under the impression that he could help him because Crane himself is a fucking nutjob--with a doctorate in crazy. But, sitting there, waiting, he looks normal. He looks like a college professor. Facial hair growing in, glasses on the very tip of his nose, he doesn't make Eddie think of the Scarecrow in any way. That, in itself, is disheartening. 

"Don't be late next time," Crane says, and then they order. 

Eddie's jittery.

"So," Crane sniffs, sipping his disgustingly thick black coffee, "What do you want from me?"

"Well, I don't know," Eddie blinks, already slightly annoyed, "I want you to figure out what's wrong with me, and then fix it, so I can go about putting on my show without..."

"Without what?"

"Interruptions."

"What interruptions are those?" Crane sits back, and gestures for him to continue, "Describe them."

Ed decides he doesn't like this. It feels too much like going through the motions, when the entire reason he's here is because regular therapy didn't do shit for him. 

"I don't want to."

"If I'm going to do my job, you need to hold up your end of the deal," Crane looks very, very tired. Ed wonders what it would take to make his eyes glimmer with interest again, like they did before. 

They stare at each other. Crane appears to do some mental dollar math and the furrow in his brow disappears.

"I want to help you," he says. 

Ed squints at him. "Why?" 

"Because if I help you, you'll want another session. And another session with you means I get to pay my rent." He takes out a notebook. "For this to work, you need to give a little." 

"Yes, about that," Ed sighs. He hadn't meant to whip out the confidentiality agreement so soon, but it's quickly becoming clear he can't relax without it. 

He hands it over. Crane leafs through the pages. 

"This isn't binding," he mutters, "None of what you suggested is legal in the first place. I'm not practicing, and you're a wanted criminal, I'm pretty sure."

"Can you just sign it?"

"You're basically askin' me to pinky promise."

"Just sign it," Eddie rolls his eyes, "Why won't you just sign it? 

"Because it's void," Crane looks him in the eye, and seems to consider something, "But, if it'll set you at ease." 

He takes a pen out of his flannel shirt pocket and scribbles his name at the bottom of the last piece of paper, then again, and hands the agreement back. Ed takes it, feeling like a child who's just been scolded and told to go stand in the corner.

Jonathan glares and lightly shakes his head, mouth pulling into a smile. 

"Pinky promise," he grumbles, then massages his temples and pulls in a breath, "Okay. Edward. Mind if I call you Edward?"

Eddie shrugs.

"Tell me what you feel you need from me," Crane says, "As precisely as you can."

*

"And you can guess what my mother did, I mean, she was a walking cliche, we've established that," Eddie dramatically drapes an arm over his eyes and sprawls himself out even more on Crane's sofa, "Nothing. She just let it all slowly fade until I had new and more exciting problems to deal with. I don't think I've ever had a conversation with her that lasted more than three minutes." 

"Uh-uh," Crane mutters, eyes skimming over papers upon papers printed top to bottom with Times New Roman 12. He's grading at his kitchen island. Ed doesn't mind; he doesn't always want Jonathan to be listening to him, either. 

"It shows, I know." 

"Mh-hmm," Crane glances over to the microscope, lifting his glasses to near his eyes to the opening, "And how does that make you feel?"

"Like there's pieces of me missing."

Eddie shivers when Crane looks up from his work just to meet his gaze. 

"Who was your first girlfriend?" he asks.

Eddie rolls his eyes. There it goes.

"I've never been in a relationship."

Crane blinks. His poker face is so obvious that it hardly hides anything at all; by the way it goes blank and shallow, Ed can tell he's surprised, and he smiles.

Not for the first time, the line between 'psychiatrist' and 'friend' blurs. It's too early for this; Eddie doesn't want a friend in him, but they've been meeting at Crane's apartment for months, and it often turns into ordering dinner. 

Crane is working on a new formula. Not for any nefarious purposes, apparently, but because he's good at it and because he wants to. Frankly, Ed couldn't have asked for things to have gone better; to think he didn't even have to nudge him. All it took was the company. Eddie tries not to feel too guilty about being such a bad influence.

Crane tests it on himself; Ed doesn't know how that works, he's never seen it. Jonathan upholds that he's developed a unique tolerance, and the stuff can't kill him even if he tries. He has. Ed knows that, too. 

"You've never been in a relationship?" Crane repeats, flatly. 

"Never. I was busy." Ed lifts himself up on his elbows to see him properly, "Don't look so shocked."

Crane shrugs. "You're smart. Okay-looking."

"Wow. I bet you say that to all the girls."

Crane's face makes an expression that sends Eddie falling back onto the sofa, laughing easily in the sudden quiet. 

"How're your students doing?" he asks when the silence starts to sting.

"Mediocre at best," Crane grumbles, "Maybe this teaching thing ain't for me, after all."

"And you didn't come to that conclusion the last time around? Didn't you shoot a student?"

Crane makes a bored noise and moves his head from side to side, returning his attention to the microscope. Eddie peels himself off the sofa and walks over to him, bare feet soundless on the floor. He looks over Crane's shoulder, and sees him shift slightly, noticing his presence. 

"And that project of yours," he says, still looking through the microscope as he adjusts some dials. He doesn't add anything, which means that was supposed to be a question. 

"It'll be ready by June," Eddie hesitates. His project requires the fear toxin, and in that regard, things are going swimmingly--he's having the tanks built already, and the puzzles are done. The only problem is he hasn't actually asked Crane to go along with it yet. "One of these days, you'll report me," he adds, amused. 

"Why would I do that? You'd just tell them I'm working on the fear toxin again, and we'd both go back to Arkham." Crane laughs quietly, an honest, precious sound.

Eddie beams at him.

"Just like a sleepover. Speaking of sleepovers, can I stay here tonight? The Bat is staking out my base."

Jonathan's cheer vanishes as unexpectedly as it appeared. 

"No." 

Eddie blinks. "Oh." 

"Get back on the sofa. Session ain't over." 

He ignores him, taking a seat beside him by the kitchen island. He can see the text on the loose pages; it's regular student gibberish. 

"Just one night," he whines, "Come on."

"No," Jonathan looks up just to glare at him, "I'll be testing." 

"So?"

"So, you won't be safe here." 

"Oh--come on," Ed scoffs, "Crack a window. The gas can't be that potent."

"I'm not worried about dosing you by accident, Edward," Jonathan grits. 

Eddie takes another look at him, gathering the details. Jonathan doesn't seem much different; dark circles around his eyes, sunken cheeks, a body that looks sick.

He decides to risk it.

"I saw you," he says, barely hearing himself, "In Arkham. I saw... you. I know you saw me."

Jonathan's dark eyes are staring straight into his.

In that moment, it aligns. Not one line - two, but running parallel to each other, just a millimetre apart. 

"I did," Crane admits. 

"You didn't kill me," Eddie furrows his brow, "You didn't bother." 

Jonathan does what he does best; he withdraws, focusing on his work. Ed tries to get something more out of him, but Crane shoos him away, and their evening slowly draws to a close; Eddie, unable to go home, finds himself with nowhere to sleep.

It's not how anyone wants to realise they have no friends, especially since the realisation in itself is... unpleasant. He tucks his hands in his pockets and heads to the nearest hotel, but the bed is squeaky and hard and there are stains on it; and you'd think that tired enough, he wouldn't care, but you'd be wrong. His heart pounds and unwanted thoughts claw at the back of his mind. He thinks to shower, but the cabin has mold in the corners and water damage has caused the paint on the wall near the ceiling to rise and peel. On another night, he might not have cared. That's how this is. That's how he tells himself it is.

He sits on the lumpy mattress and hangs his head. 

It's all small things wallpapered over bigger things and there are so many, he can't begin to count them. He doesn't know where to start, and doesn't even want to start. There's only so much rational thinking he can do mid-panic attack and the next thing he knows he's leaving, walking back down the street, to Jonathan's place. He's shivering all over. 

Crane, of course, doesn't answer. Eddie tries the old 'forgot my keys, locked myself out' trick with he neighbours and they buzz him in. He runs up the stairs, taking two at a time, then slows and tries to get his breathing under control. 

The door looms over him. Gulping, he gets down on one knee and picks the lock, then the other one. 

It's easy. He's good at this--good at compartmentalising, good with his hands. He can function, most of the time, and has been able to for years, but he feels--the way he feels--

The door gives and he sneaks into the crack, letting the darkness surround him. 

It's been an hour, maybe two, but in the dead of night the apartment looks like a grotesque caricature. Long, narrow shadows lick up the walls, extending from the single light source that is the candle on the coffee table. Beside it sits Crane, his sleeve drawn up to his elbow and his face--

His face is extremely wrong, and it takes Eddie a shameful moment to realise he's just wearing the mask. His heart is already pounding. There are syringes on the table, and a camera set up on a tripod.

"Jonathan?" he asks. 

Something about the wave of fear that hits him actually manages to overpower the irrational panic from before, and now, in a life-saving kind of instinct, he knows that he needs to go. Crane rises from the sofa, long, lanky legs unfolding, and he looks like--well, it should be quite clear what he looks like. Eddie clears his throat. 

"Jonathan, take that thing off, it's only me." 

It hums. "Jonny's gone off to sleep." 

The thing lunges at him bodily, knocking over the tripod and sending syringes flying, spare for the one in his hand. Ed lets out an undignified yelp and staggers back, but not quick enough--Crane grabs him, fingers digging into flesh, and pushes him back against the kitchen island, the edge digging painfully into his lower back. They sat here, just a few hours ago, and laughed. Ed struggles, sending loose sheets of paper falling to the floor.

"Jonathan!" he shouts. 

He stops Crane from plunging the needle into his neck and holds his arm away from himself, trying desperately to push him off. 

A gurgling, scratchy laugh comes from underneath the mask and two plumes of gas flow from the mouth, hitting Ed directly in the face. He chokes and instinctively pulls in a deep breath right after, and all his senses sharpen at once. 

Ed manages to twist hard enough to make him drop the syringe, then pulls back a fist and punches. Jonathan, being about his weight, stumbles back with the force of it; heaving, Ed reaches for a weapon. 

He does the math quickly. Can he kill Jonathan in self defense? The answer is yes. Now, to try and avoid that. 

He draws the knife from his shoe. The gas is working; everything is starting to shake, and the horrible, nauseating fear that fills him form head to toe is making it difficult to breathe. 

He turns and bolts for the door, but the flat is suddenly not what it was a second ago; there are doors everywhere, winding corridors that twist and turn and go up and down and in circles. He runs, tripping over things he can't see, slams into an invisible wall--his brain jiggles in his skull like jelly--and then throws the door to the flat shut behind him. Locks it with a flick of a dial. Strange, that it has a lock on this side--what apartment locks from the outside? 

He doesn't care. The only thing that matters is that there's a layer of wood between him and that thing.

There's a bang on the door. The hinges rattle. Ed folds his hands over his mouth and screams. A blade comes out of the wood--a kitchen knife. He screams again, and keeps screaming until his throat is so sore he can't get a single sound out. Air travels up his windpipe, through his nose, and escapes uselessly like wind whistling through empty rooms. 

He passes out. 

*

When he wakes up, it's morning. The bathroom is filled with natural light, but that's because the door is clean off its hinges, and propped up against the doorframe. 

Jonathan is kneeling on the tiles in front of him, holding his eyelid open.

Ed shudders and tries to get away, but he's trapped in the corner between the toilet and the wall. His shoulders hurt, his body hurts... his head...

"Eddie?" Jonathan is patting his cheek. Slapping it, more like. 

Ed squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again, then groans.

"Oh, God," he says. 

For a split second, Jonathan looks relieved. Then, his brow furrows and his mouth twists into a frown. 

"I could fucking kill you right now," he says, voice hoarse. 

Ed tips his head back against the wall with a dull thud. He wants to make a joke, but his thoughts are fuzzy and sluggish. 

"Eddie," Crane looks down, then awkwardly reaches for him--but doesn't touch, letting his hand drop. "Ed, I'm sorry." 

Eddie looks up at the door again, the busted hinges. 

"How did that happen?" he nods at it, "How am I alive?"

Jonathan glances over his shoulder.

"Oh. No, I did that... just now."

"Huh."

He blinks. Jonathan's face is pale and empty; he looks disappointed, and guilty, but there is a harshness about him that makes Ed think he won't apologise again. 

"Why did you come back here, last night?" he asks. 

Ed sees the humour in his answer, but says it anyway. "I was scared." 

Jonathan nods slowly. Just when Ed thinks he might be getting over it, he straightens up. 

"I'm not your psychiatrist anymore," he says, "Don't come here again." 

"Jonathan, come on," Ed doesn't get up, resting his elbows on his knees, "You're developing something new, I saw it. We can--I've got a plan--"

He looks wary. "What are you talking about?"

"I had an idea," he says, gesturing, "l had--"

Jonathan looks confused. Then, angry.

"All this time, you knew I'd go back to it?" he asks, voice faltering, "All this time, you were counting on it?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Ed throws his hands up, "It's not like I did something to you. It was your choice!"

"I thought you wanted my help."

"And I did," Eddie cries, voice jumping higher, "I do! Why are you angry at me? You're the one who almost killed me last night!" 

"My help as a psychiatrist!" Jonathan shouts, and Ed scrambles to his feet to at least try and match his height. "Not as--" 

His voice cuts off so abruptly Ed thinks his throat might've physically closed on the word. He makes a sound like a gag. 

Eddie inhales sharply. 

"Yeah, okay, I wanted both!" he barks, "So what? I took it into consideration, and planned around it, it's what I do!"

"Right, yeah," Jonathan props his hands up on his hips, "Here's some honesty, since I'm not your shrink anymore--that's your problem. You just want too much." He looks heartbroken. Quite honestly, openly heartbroken. When he speaks again, his voice is different. "You expect people to give you everything they have and you don't give anything, anything in return, because you have nothing to offer!" 

Eddie feels a cold tightness clutch his throat.

"Don't act like you're better than me." He leans against the wall when his head spins. "You make me look like sanity-fucking-incarnate." 

He sees the door and tries not to imagine Crane breaking it off its hinges just to see if he's alright.

"And one other thing," Eddie points a finger at him, "I have plenty to offer. You're the one who doesn't deserve it." 

Then, he finally leaves. His head hurts. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE'S JONNY! Haha.


	3. Chapter 3

Gotham is burning. 

Ed's puzzle boxes had been intended as a larger part of a scrapped thing, but the principle is this--a tank filled to the brim with fear gas, and inside, a puzzle. Drop a Bat in there, make him solve the puzzle to get out. The time limit is as long as he can hold his breath. 

Unfortunately, Eddie had also found a lab to mass-produce the stuff. Unfortunately, because some weeks ago, his base had been broken into--and his plans stolen. 

So, yes. Gotham is burning. The Scarecrow is riding through the streets on a black horse, corpses on strings dragging behind him. He is a nightmare. A force of nature. In a small, private place in his mind, Eddie allows himself to be fascinated. 

The rogues scatter like roaches during fumigation. The only one who holds their ground is Penguin--Joker and Harley simply join in on the fun, while Ivy sets up camp in the botanical gardens, and great big roots sprout from the ground around them like a crown. 

It's unclear how the Bat knows to come to him, but he does. Ed assumes it's due to the fact that anyone watching from the outside would've seen him coming over to Crane's place twice a week, and spending anywhere from two to six hours at a time there. He knows how that looks. He's glad the Bat doesn't care.

"Tell me everything you know about the toxin."

"No," Ed says. 

"Tell me where he's headed."

"How should I know?"

The Bat grabs him by the collar; Ed pushes him away by the shoulders, and as his hand glides over the cape, he attaches a small device there. 

"You know him. Talk." 

Ed shrugs obnoxiously in his grip and shakes his head. It's theatre, now. 'You know him'. He doesn't know Crane, nobody does; how do you accept a being like that, a thing like that? It's not two sides of the same coin, it's not two halves wrestling for dominance--it's two parallel lines--

"If I don't get to him first, the GCPD will shoot to kill," the Bat growls low in his throat, pulling him closer, "Tell me where he's going. Now."

"You need to snap him out of it," Ed hisses, "I can help, but you have to--"

"There isn't any time left. Tell me where," he growls, "So that I can save his life."

"Arkham!" Eddie snaps, "He's going to try to get on Arkham Island! Now take me with you!" 

It's always Arkham. 

Eddie doesn't know much about Jonathan; he knows all that's been made public record, and most of what hasn't, but he doesn't know much about him at all. He could walk through Crane's apartment blindfolded, and he knows his favourite bands, and he knows what it sounds like when he hums. But he doesn't know him. (In his defense, he doesn't feel like he's ever truly known another person at all.)

The Bat gives him a look that lasts just long enough to identify as surprise. Then, he dives out of the window he came in through, line hissing. Ed waits, eyes on his watch, seconds ticking by. After fifteen, he runs out after him, grabbing a baseball bat on the way. He hopes this works. 

He can't believe he's doing it, but in a very direct way, he feels responsible. He pushed Jonthan back into his old ways; reminded him of something greater, something that's worth it, and that alone is flattering. It shouldn't be. This, he knows, will take a toll on Crane, and there is nobody who will help him. Crane unites people in the truest, most honest way; he makes them run from him. He shows them the things that they couldn't bear to lose. He snaps the idle and numb out of their lethargy and reminds them that, indeed, they would rather live than die. 

He follows the red dot until he finds the Bat looming over him, fallen on the road, the great black horse pacing nervously nearby. The man looks exhausted; unsteady on his feet. Probably a partial dose. He raises the bat.

It meets with the back of Batman's skull with a satisfying thunk, sending him crashing to his knees, his hands splashing the muddy water. His cowl is clearly reinforced, but the blow is enough to keep him down. 

Ed drops the weapon and crouches by Crane's still body, gently turning him over onto his back. He yanks the mask off his face, only to discover two tubes sticking out his nose--he's too frightened to rip them out, so he stuffs the mask into Jonathan's hand and drags him to his feet. He's pale, clammy with sweat. 

The knees of Ed's green suit are dirty. It's a strange moment to come to terms with reality, but he is suddenly and vividly aware of everything; he hopelessness, the fear, the desperate need to clutch this bag of skin and bones to his side and limp towards the horse. (Crane shows him what matters. Crane reminds him--)

"Come on," he mutters, "Come on, you're fine, it's fine." 

He never stood a chance of taking him down in a way that's not permanent. It's a good thing there are people in Gotham who do. 

Jonathan's head rolls sideways, colliding with Ed's jaw, but he manages to get on the horse. Ed does a one, two, three and hops up behind him. He glances back at the Bat, but he's still down, hands braced on the asphalt.

With a triumphant grin, Eddie tips his hat in his direction, then reaches around Jonathan and takes the reins. 

"How do you drive this thing?" he whispers. 

"Like a bike," Jonathan scowls half-heartedly, leaning back against him, "Just like a bike." 

In hindsight, galloping through the city on horseback in full villainous costume is a great deal of fun. He will admit that. He loses his bowler hat somewhere on the way, and doesn't even notice. 

*

It's the first Scarecrow rampage that doesn't end with him in Arkham.

He needs care, but Ed knew that. He places them in a safehouse he'd kept for a rainy day--his only safehouse, really, but that's unimportant. It's not the bunker kind, but an actual apartment, the windows artfully obscured; it had belonged to a businessman, and stood vacant for years (to Ed's knowledge - but he really has no way of asking. Said businessman is in multiple parts at the bottom of the river. Old history.)

So, yes. There's only one bed. Eddie puts Jonathan on it, gently removes the tubes from his nose, and sits with him well into the night.

He snapped. He broke, fractured, whatever you want to call it. He splintered, and Ed hadn't been there, hadn't seen--when it had been predictable. Obvious. Inevitable.

Eddie only really remembers they're not friends when Crane wakes up, in the morning, and his eyes aren't glazed over. He looks up at him, and in a hoarse voice, he asks what he'd done. 

Not what had happened. What he had done. 

"You terrorized the city on a horse," Ed informs him. 

Jonathan groans. "Yeah. And where am I?"

"My safe house."

He hesitates.

"I'll take care of you," he adds, "Until you're better." He doesn't know why he wanted so badly to tell him that. Why it feels like a trespass at the same time. 

Jonathan sinks into the pillows, dark brown eyes barely peeking out from under his eyelids. 

"Did I kill anyone?"

"Oh, come now, what is this? Your conscience acting up?"

"I prefer to know these things," be scowls, brushing a hand over his forehead, "Looks better in court." 

"Try to sleep it off," Eddie compulsively smooths out the covers over the man's chest, all but tucks him in, "We can talk later."

Then he goes to sleep on the pull-out sofa. After a short and disappointing nap, he slams a coffee and gets to work on their only connection to the world - a single laptop he'd stashed here. He secures the connection and makes sure they're untraceable so that he can get back on the grid; Jonathan immediately uses the opportunity to check his email. 

"My students," he says weakly, "Wrote to me." 

"What'd they write?" Ed peeks over his shoulder. Jonathan pushes his face away.

Eddie opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say (he's not sure himself) dies in it. Keeping himself busy. Probably a good thing--means Ed doesn't have to entertain him like a house cat. 

*

He'll have to go back to his own place eventually, of course; caring for another person isn't in his nature. And this is odd. As much time has he's spent alone with Crane, not having the excuse of therapy is jarring. 

He walks around. Jonathan doesn't care at first, barely awake in the first place, and Ed paces. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 

"Eddie," Jonathan looks up from the screen, "You're killin' me."

Ed stops. 

"Since you're back in business," he rattles out, turning to face him, "How about working with me?"

Jonathan's face twists into a look of displeasure. 

"Eddie," he looks back at the screen, "I told you already."

"Mh-hmm. I was just hoping, since you're back in your Scarecrow boots..." Ed stops himself just after seeing his face, "Well, then, at least be my psychiatrist again. You owe me that much, come on." 

Jonathan raises his eyebrows. "That's called a guilt trip." 

"Yeah, and?" 

"I don't owe you anything."

Eddie thinks that's a little rude. 

"Oh, come on, now..." he scoffs, propping his hands up on his hips, "I saved you! From Arkham! I took on the Bat for you!"

"I didn't ask you to do any of that." 

"Fine, then let's just talk," Eddie pulls up a chair and sits backwards in it, facing Jonathan, "How about that?"

Crane watches him like he knows something he doesn't. Like he doesn't really want to tell him, either. 

"I know you have a compulsive need for attention," he says, finally, "But I don't." 

He moves the laptop into his lap and turns in the swivel chair. Ed watches his bony fingers dance on the keyboard right until the moment the backrest hides him from view. 

"Besides, you'll be out of cash soon," Jonathan's voice murmurs, "I know your expenses."

"Yeah, that's why I need your help with the goddamn job," Ed snaps, hooking his arms over the back of his chair. 

"Shut up about the job!" Crane swivels back around, but misjudges his speed and almost falls out of the seat. He plants his feet firmly on the ground, grabbing the laptop.

Ed instinctively reaches forward to help, and stays there for a second, hands hanging in the air between them. A shiver runs up his back, trailed by heat. He hisses, taking them back. 

Jonathan's voice wasn't made for shouting. Scratchy, like that of a many years' smoker, but deep. When he yells, it goes up an octave, and if it weren't for the shock of the whole situation Ed would have trouble taking him seriously. 

He doesn't miss Jonathan pausing to take a breath.

"You want to work with me... to pay for your therapy with me? You're not making a lick of sense."

He scoffs. "You're just about the only person I know in this city." It's true. Accidental, but true. Eddie has always enjoyed trying new things and meeting new people, but when he finds something he likes, he sticks with it. 

"Yes, I see that." 

Eddie begins to smile, but when he glances at Crane, it drops. The man has gone pale. While Ed looks on, he closes the laptop and gets up form the creaky chair, then pulls his sleeves down.

"I'm going home."

"What?" Eddie doesn't stand up. "Don't be ridiculous, they're staking the place out. I've told you, you can stay here as long as you want."

"I don't want your help." He goes straight for the door.

Eddie clings to his chair. 

"I'm not offering you help! Call it a favour for a favour, if you want, just for fuck's sake, don't go! Jonathan!" 

Crane stops. Ed's a little surprised, honestly. 

"Eddie," he says, and walks back to him.

Ed feels something cold creep over his forearms, making his skin rise into gooseflesh. The feeling only intensifies when Jonathan comes close enough to see his eyes.

"Get this through your head," his voice is... strange. Ed can't put his finger on it. He reaches forward and curls his fist in the front of Eddie's collar, then yanks him up, almost lifting him clean out of the chair. "I don't... care about you. I gave you counselling, and you paid me, and if you think that makes us friends, you are delusional." 

Eddie swallows. He smiles tightly, then bites down on the inside of his cheek, desperately trying to forget what he'd just been told; pretend they're words he won't remember tomorrow, or the day after that, or the week after, or the year. He shields himself. Hell knows if it even is Crane; there's something so shallow about his eyes, so--empty. Like poor acting. Or really, really good acting. 

Or honesty.

"Get," Eddie raises his eyebrows politely, "your hands... off me."

"Wanna know something else?" Crane whispers. It's quiet, melodic. Like a rhyme. "You don't care about me, either."

Ed winces, eyes closing, and swallows the tightness in his throat.

"You're afraid." Crane leans even closer, their faces nearly touching. "You're shaking all over."

He grits his teeth and tries to breathe. "How did you dose me?" 

"Oh, this is all you." He huffs, amused. "It's all you." 

The hand closes on his throat and he does lift him, now, shoving him against the nearest wall. The problem with Jonathan is that he's strong; like wire and rope. The problem with Jonathan is that when Ed asks himself if he could kill him in self defense, the answer doesn't come as fast as it used to. 

The hand retreats and his feet slide out from under him; he hits the back of his head on the wall going down, and vertigo overcomes him, bringing nausea along with it. He briefly sees dark around the edges, then it goes away, but the horrid drilling in his head only gets stronger. 

He clenches his jaw.

"Jonathan." He presses his hands over his ears. "Jonathan." 

He doesn't want to look up, but he can't see his feet anywhere. He sobs and immediately wants to punch himself; he covers his face.

He didn't even do anything. How the hell is he supposed to survive this, if he didn't even do anything?

But maybe that's just it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> go read Killing a Little Time for proper safehouse shenanigans with these two. :) thanks for reading!


	4. interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie makes some new friends.

Eddie Nigma doesn't drink. 

He's tried it, seen the appeal, and promptly decided it's a test of will, of sorts. How much can a man take, you ask; genetics, predispositions aside, how much until he falls into the habit. 

Eddie knows it's in his genes. Again, a test of will. Not before God, or anything like that, but before himself. Maybe those are one and the same. 

Instead, Eddie doesn't sleep. 

He swallows and shakes and screams. He starts writing; scraps the old project, starts a new one. It will be a maze. He's always liked mazes; those hedge ones especially, where you can, if forced, tear through the thick coil of the branches. And it feels like you're being clawed at. Punished. 

Against the Bat, bushes won't do. He needs to make sure there's lasers, rules, and consequences. He likes that idea; winning against brute force with nothing but words. 

You try and cut through the knot, I'll show you. I'll show you. There are rules. There is order in the world.

Still, he needs money. Easy. Rob a bank. No, no. He needs men, but he isn't well-known yet. He doesn't have money. All he has is his intellect, and his talent for information. 

He could talk to Oswald. In the past year, he has met with the man on multiple occasions. Oswald, being a businessman, doesn't take him too seriously - but has a sort of amused interest in him that makes Eddie think he could be convinced to set up a scheme together. Of course, there remains the issue that Oswald will no doubt fuck him over, and it's so obvious it's not even really hurtful. That is what Penguin does.

So, Eddie needs someone he's more confident he can make tick to his own rhythm. Someone a little simpler. 

He wonders how you go about setting up a meeting with Catwoman. 

(He sighs to himself as he tracks her through the city via CCTV. He's not going about this the way he'd planned to; he'd wanted to be his own man, that had been the whole point. Now, he feels like he's a ping pong ball, jumping between already-established ubervillains.)

Anyway, he's not completely without resources. 

Selina Kyle, turns out, is in her late twenties, and she lives near Park Row with a roommate who's also her best friend. Eddie has to wonder how you make it to villain status while living out of a tiny flat, and with a walking liability attached to your hip. Of course, it'd taken some luck and access to a number of information banks to figure out her identity, but that's a very thin safety net to keep.

He didn't even have to leave his house to do it. And once it is done, he backtracks; realises that once again, he'd done something in a half-fever dream, rushed in without looking at what he was doing from the outside. He sighs. Why have friends if you won't use them?

"I do have a way of contacting her, as a matter of fact," Oswald replies over the phone, "She's worked for me in the past, though she's hardly my first choice, I'm sure you understand. Nobody steals from me and gets away with it." 

"Uh-uh," Eddie says, feeling this isn't the time to note Kyle did, quite literally, get away with it. She's still on Oswald's contacts list, after all. "So, I--"

"Your plan with Crane burned to a crisp, then?" Oswald asks innocently.

Information. They can be civil about it; talk like friends. Ed forces himself to speak.

"Crane wouldn't cooperate."

"I could've told you that, my boy," Penguin chuckles, and Eddie hears something click on his side, like a pipe or something else between his teeth. "Why on Earth did you think to go to him?"

Ed falls silent. Oswald wants an answer. He's fucked all of this up royally; there's a lid on it, sure, but that doesn't matter when Eddie's acutely aware of all his shortcomings. 

"His fear toxin," Ed sighs, "I wanted to play with it. And you have to admit, he's more predictable than the clown." 

Oswald laughs until it turns into a smoker's cough. 

"You've got some sense, at least." 

Ed pulls a face, taking advantage of the fact Oswald can't see him. 

"So what do you want with Cat, then?" Penguin adds.

Ed looks out the window. He really isn't enjoying the interrogation, though he'd known this was the price to pay. "Come on. Have you seen her?"

Oswald bursts out laughing again. Fuck. A swing and a miss.

"As you know, Oswald, I'm still quite new here," he continues grudgingly, "I'd like to make more friends."

"Well, good luck then, Eddie," Oswald says, voice low. "I'll send you her number."

"Thanks. I won't forget this." 

"Oh, neither will I." 

He hangs up and looks down at the screen of his phone. It vibrates in his hand with a text. He highlights it and calls.

"Hello?" a feminine voice picks up after the third tone.

Eddie smiles.

"Good evening," he begins, "Have I reached Gotham's favourite cat burglar?"

Her voice is different when she speaks this time, more sultry. 

"Who's asking?"

"Let me ask you something, first." 

*

"Shrimp," Selina lifts her head from her arms, "And extra noodles." 

"It's always extra noodles with you," Eddie grumbles, sending a glare her way, and presses the phone to his ear, "And fried shrimp with extra noodles. And that'll be all." 

The takeout guy on the other end confirms his order and Eddie hangs up, returning his attention to the woman half-asleep on the kitchen table.

"Slam a coffee," Ed flicks her forehead as he walks past, "We have work to do."

"Ed, it's four-fucking-AM," she groans, "Get out of my house." 

"I just ordered you food," Ed circles the table and sits down in front of her, locking his fingers together, "You should be marrying me." 

"I will. If we're both single in ten years, I'll marry you," she raises her eyebrows and runs her hand through her short, mussed hair, "Pinky promise."

Ed feels the gulp coffee he had five minutes ago rise back up into his throat. He swallows it down and squeezes the bridge of his nose. Easy.

"Getting bored of the Bat, are you?" he asks to distract her from his reaction, and to distract himself from it, as well. 

"No," she scowls, "And shut up. We had a deal. We don't talk about stuff." 

"Or things," he sighs, "Yeah, I remember."

He looks down at the surface of the table. It's quite old, the edges look almost sanded down; there are coffee cup rings, and scratches, and a dash of permanent marker where it must've gone through the paper. 

Selina's apartment. He lives here, sure, but it's Selina's apartment and they both know it; it would be too much to sacrifice, for her, to let go of the memory of Holly completely and replace her with him. It's enough of an invasion that he sleeps in Holly's bedroom, and drinks tea from Holly's cups. He's just glad Selina doesn't hate him.

Like Jonathan discreetly observed years ago, he hasn't had too many significant relationships of any kind, and none with women. Whatever that says about him, he doesn't care; and as it turns out, when he stopped caring, everything became a hell of a lot easier. 

And he didn't need Crane for it, either.

His entire life is built on unfinished things. Ideas he doesn't flesh out, plans he doesn't go through with, and violence he doesn't have the guts to carry out.

For one thing, he can't go around annoying Selina's boyfriend anymore. He's trying, and she's trying, and from stealing diamonds together to pay for his mazes and traps--him, the brains, her, the muscle--they've gone to not doing anything in particular. That's an improvement, he's told. 

"Kitty," he sighs, glancing up at her, "Have you heard anything about Scarecrow?" 

Her face does something strange.

"Your roots are showing," she says. "I know a girl."

"I don't want to bleach my roots, I want you to answer the question." 

"He's in Arkham," her brow furrows, "He's been in Arkham for months, and you know that. Why are you asking?" 

He feels stupid. These moments come rarely, but when they do, it's all he can think about. 

"Eddie," Selina snaps her fingers in front of his face, "We're doing fine. Look--look at me. We're doing okay." 

*

The sirens deafen him, the lights blind. His tongue feels odd in his mouth; his jaw hurts, his teeth too, and he can taste metal. He blinks.

"I'm going to be out within a month!" he snaps, while he's being thrown into the back of a police cruiser like some common thug, "A month, mark the fucking date, do you hear me? Get off!" he kicks at the nearest officer. The door slams shut.

Stupid. Stupid.

Slowly, things are put into perspective. They turn so that the light hits them.

He doesn't have much. 

In terms of friends, of family, he doesn't have enough to really even have a proper point of reference. Jonathan was important and so he is forever important, but Eddie's not a psychiatrist, and he doesn't know how to get close to him safely, but something is calling.

So. Of all the times. 

"I don't know if you know this, but I don't like Arkham," Eddie says to the doctor. 

The two guards are holding him by the arms as the lift goes lower, lower, into the bowels of the complex. He was forced to undress, he was washed. It was--he's not sure it was as bad as the first time. Maybe. Maybe, somehow, worse. "Never liked it, in fact. When I was first here, I--"

One guard hits him across the face. Just goes for it, just like that. Ed opens his mouth, but for once finds himself too offended to say anything.

No, wait--wrong floor. 

"So," he struggles, trying to pull his right arm free, uncomfortable with the clasp of a hand on the skin on his wrist. His uniform only reaches his elbow. "Would that be max we're headed to?"

"Shut up," the doctor says, raising his eyebrows, "Or we will gag you."

"Wow, you really stopped keeping up appearances, huh?" 

The doctor raises his eyebrows and looks away. Well. There's that. 

He can get out. He is not the man he was those years ago; if nothing else, he has outgrown his fear of the Scarecrow, and a number of other things by proxy. He walks past cages upon cages, thick glass, leaky pipes that spill not water, but dark, chemical-smelling sewage. Just what goes on in Arkham, nobody really knows; it lives a life separate from the patients, the doctors, and the overseers. Eddie has never believed in God, or spirits, or whatever else nonsense people dream up when they're afraid--but that doesn't stop him feeling it. That odd, chilling sensation.

Crane got it right. Not even a clear mind is immune to simple brain chemistry, and Eddie's the best example.

The doors are metal. The cell is cramped, less than two metres wide. He couldn't lie down on the floor. His heart pounds.

"This is new," he says over his shoulder as the door slams shut with a clang. 

He is in max, it's true, but he is not going go be studied--not going to be watched, observed in his glass bubble, like a bug in a jar. He's in max. And the idea is that he'll be forgotten here.

He wants to slam his fist against the door, but he doesn't. He stands very still, listening to the footsteps of the retreating staff.

There is no vent. Like a cellar, the wall separating his from the cell next door has holes at the very top, small round openings. He thinks he hears something on the other side, like a scoff, or a muttered insult.

"Hello?" he calls curiously, wondering how this will affect his steadily blooming escape plan.

Nobody answers. 

Eddie sighs and sits down on the cot. 


	5. Chapter 5

Arkham is different every time he's here, to the point where he wonders if they actually change the layout every few years, or if it's just that vast. It's smart, of course, dealing with someone with a knack for mazes, even if they're only delying the inevitable; he'll break out. 

The complete silence begins to feel like he's losing hearing. He clears his throat, once, then again; the quiet is pushing into his ears. He hums.

"I'm looking over," he sings, "A four-leaf clover..." 

"Shut up," a raspy voice comes from the cell beside his. 

"Oh, hello." Eddie looks at the wall, satisfied with himself, and lies back on the cot with his hands under his head. He folds one leg over the other and swings his foot from left to right to the tune now stuck in his head. "With whom do I have the pleasure...?"

There's a thump, a clang, and a soft clap. The clang rings for a while, and then there's a painfully familiar sigh. Eddie's heart sinks. He sits up on the bed and stares at the wall.

"Jonathan?"

Another thump, louder this time, then a louder clang, and a clap. Eddie furrows his brow. 

"Jonathan."

"What?"

Eddie swallows. He puts on a smile.

"Where did you get a ball?"

Thump. Clang. Clap. He puckers his lips.

"Can I play with it?"

"You only just got here."

"So? I get bored much faster."

Jonathan huffs a laugh. "Didn't you tell me an intelligent man is never bored?" Thump, clang, thump. Clap. 

Eddie smiles, genuinely this time. He can hear it in his own voice when he speaks, and his throat grows tight around the words. "I heard you've been in here for months." 

Thump. Clang--thump-thump-thump-thump. He must've dropped it. 

"That's right," Jonathan says, "Come all this way just to see lil' old me?" 

"You wish," he laughs, "No. No, you see, I'd gone straight."

"You? Unlikely."

He laughs again, puts a hand over his mouth this time. Stupid. He's just gotten himself thrown back into Arkham, ruined everything he's worked for, ruined his life. His friendship with Selina. It's not a time for laughter, or for stupid double entendres. 

Something drops from right under the ceiling and thuds against the floor in Eddie's cell. He doesn't have to get up to grab it, just reaches out. It's a rubber ball, small enough that he can almost close his hand around it. 

He scoots back on the cot and folds his legs close to himself, then looks up, at the ventilation openings.

"You got that through there on your first try?" he asks, trying to aim. 

"I've had practice with it."

"What if I don't give it back?" he lowers his hand, looks down at the ball. 

It's tacky. It has glitter suspended in a thin inside layer in ugly clumps; when Eddie turns it against the light, it shimmers. There is another sphere inside, probably of paint or another matte dye. Handling the thing gives Eddie a vague, prickling sense of unease. 

He realises Jonathan hasn't given him an answer.

"What if I don't give it back?" he repeats, watching the glitter.

He reaches back and throws the ball, just to see if he can get it through, but it bounces uselessly off the wall.

"Ah, fuck," he says, catching it in his hands.

There's a soft laugh on the other side.

Eddie tries again. He gets a little closer this time, but the ball still comes back. He's starting to think this might be some sort of metaphor, so he stops trying. Bitterly, he realises that, too, is a metaphor.

He bounces it off the wall and catches it in his hand.

"You're not--," Jonathan hesitates, "actually here because of me, are you, Ed?" 

"What?" Eddie scowls, "Of course not. I don't mean to dredge up old drama, but you made it clear where we stood with each other."

He clenches the ball in his hand. 

"You've done some pretty stupid shit for me," Jonathan says.

"I was using you." 

"Is that right?"

"Why not? Have you met me?" 

Another sigh. Crane's voice is level and tired.

"I really don't know how after all this time, you still think you're the bad one."

Eddie bites his lips shut, but he has never been able to stop when he knows he should. 

"And that was you being the bigger person, yes?"

"I don't know what you want from me."

"I don't want anything from you," he says, "I barely even know you."

"But I know you."

"Which is uncomfortable, but I can deal with it," he mutters, "Without you."

"It's better like that." 

"Oh, fuck you," Eddie scowls. 

A moment passes. The silence begins to hurt again, so he pulls his knees to his chest and fills the void once more.

"So," he blinks, "Why haven't you broken out yet?"

There's a dissatisfied noise. "Eh, I shouldn't be out."

"What?"

"I'm sayin' I'm better off locked up." 

"Well, don't--don't say that," Eddie stutters.

"It's like clockwork, Ed." He sounds annoyed, like he's explaining this for the hundredth time, like he's convinced he knows best. "Three in the morning. Every time. And that's without outside... interference."

"Oh, and I understand I'm 'interference'?"

He inhales sharply. "Not just you." A breath. "Mainly."

Ed swallows his anger. 

"How long has it really been?" he asks, "You've been in and out of Arkham for years." 

"Yeah, they keep moving me to the regular cells upstairs. I'm takin' up space here." He sighs. "They want the ones bashing their heads open against the walls, the ones who bite, or complete fucking lunatics, like the clown."

"Really? They don't think you're a threat?" Eddie laughs in disbelief, "You?"

"Yep," Crane cracks something, possibly his knuckles or neck, "At least you know what I am. You even lived to tell the tale. You should tell it. To them." 

"What tale?"

Jonathan sighs heavily. Eddie knows he's provoking him, and that is unwise, but that's never stopped him before--and besides, there's a wall between them. He patiently waits for Jonathan to blow up, his heart beating like a drum. 

He doesn't. He just sighs again. 

"I'm tired of sabotaging myself." A faint creak of the bed. "And if I don't get to be in control, neither of us do." 

Vaguely disappointed, Eddie studies his nails.

"He's not separate from you, you know," he says, "I've met him. He's you, just... colder."

"Great fucking reassurance, Eddie." 

"It's true." 

"It doesn't matter if it's true, you don't get to say that to me. I don't want to think that."

"I don't mind it," he adds, soft but insistent.

Silence falls again. Eddie furrows his brow and leans over to knock on the wall, but changes his mind with his knuckles hanging an inch away. He lowers his arm, settles in on the mattress. He hopes he's not here too long; too much can be said when you're not forced to look someone in the eye. 

*

He's only just managed to fall asleep when something wakes him. Faint at first, the strange, prickly sound shifts along the wall until it's close enough to wake him.

Scratching. 

He lifts himself on his elbows, staring into the dark. Scritch. Scratch. 

"Jonathan?" he whispers, like they're children having a sleepover. 

It's so pitch black that he can't even really see the wall, and it's easy to imagine there is indeed nothing there, between him and Crane. 

Then the scratching comes again, loud in the void. 

"Jonathan," Ed repeats, because he's now quite sure that it's him. The sound is obvious--nails on the porous Arkham brick. 

It stops. 

A low, vibrating whine comes through the vent holes. It chills Eddie to the bone; he sits up, pressing his back against the other wall, and swallows harshly. He doesn't have a clock, but he can guess the time.

The whine turns into a fevered whisper. Eddie can make out the individual sounds, but it's gibberish, folded to fit a barely noticable rhyme. Like a spoken, complex hum, Crane mutters and mumbles, stumbling on the sounds sometimes, coughing.

Eddie feels the dread inching its way up his body. He has accepted that not every panic attack is caused by fear toxin, no matter how much he'd like it to be, but the knowledge doesn't help - all he can do is breathe.

The dark is frightening. Though it seems irrational even to him, he reaches out with both hands and presses them to the wall, reminding himself it's there, rock-solid between him and whatever's in the other room.

"You can't get me tonight," he says, putting on a tone more amused than how he feels, and looks up to where he imagines the vents are. 

"Yes, I can." 

The voice is different. Of course, he can still hear Jonathan's pitch in it, the way he moves his mouth around the sounds, but--there is an emptiness to it, a kind of dull, stony hate that makes Ed swallow. 

"It's not exactly witchcraft," Eddie says anyway, "Sleepwalking is quite common, as are nightmares, and you're probably in deep sleep by now."

There's a hum.

"I used to get them," he goes on, shrugging, "Still do, sometimes, but you know that. Not much has changed since we last talked."

"You should've learned something." 

Ed's skin crawls. He tries to remember that this is Jonathan, just as he was a few hours before. It's only Jonathan, but it would be foolish to deny what he's capable of when he's like this--so he remembers the wall dividing them, too.

"What are your nightmares about, Edward? Tell me," more scratching, "I'd like to know."

"You." 

There's a rumbling, satisfied chuckle that almost sounds familiar, but misses by the end, where it turns into a hiss of air. 

"You're afraid of me?"

"Not of you," Ed wonders if he's not saying too much, but Jonathan won't remember this, "For you."

He sits back on the bed and pulls his knees to his chest.

"You're setting yourself up for heartbreak," Jonathan says, sounding more like himself.

Eddie pulls in a breath. "I know." 

*

Days pass quickly. Every night, he talks to the thing on the other side of the wall, and every morning, Jonathan asks if he dreamt it. Eddie tells him yes. 

After a while, Jonathan stops asking, and it's only the other one that Eddie talks to. He starts sleeping through the days; wakes at night, just in time to hear the gritty drag of chalk on brick, finds food by the door. 

"Where did you get that? Is that chalk?" he asks quietly, staring at the distant, black, abstract ceiling. 

The voice is muffled, quieter than usual. "I put it under the bed." 

Eddie scowls at the perspective of crawling underneath his cot. The cell is dirty, and he can only imagine the accumulated mass of dust and blood and hair he's likely to find if he checks.

"I know where to go," the thing adds. 

Eddie raises his eyebrows. "What do you mean?" 

"I know the maze." 

"You mean you know the way out?"

"I'll draw where he won't see." 

Ed blinks in surprise. Where, in a cell in which you can't spread your arms fully, and can only take five or six steps the other way, do you hide a plan of Arkham?

He swallows.

"Are you going to break out?"

"Are you not?"

Truthfully, Eddie doesn't have all the elements yet. His tactic relies on gathering information for a few weeks. He hasn't been in this cell before; doesn't know which part of the wing he's in. It all takes time, which he's been wasting talking.

"Unlike you to leave a question unanswered," he hears.

He sighs. "My apologies. I've been feeling... dulled."

"Stupid Eddie."

Stupid Eddie, indeed. What the hell is he doing here? How is it that no matter how much he tries, he always relapses? How is it, that his instinct to do good, the care which he is capable of, all pale when his quiet, seething anger bubbles over into a perfectly-controlled cruel act?

He has always considered himself uniquely self-aware. His father had been the one with the temper--the stupid, pointless violence, and Jonathan's like that, too. What that says about Ed, he would rather not consider. 

He isn't either of them. 

Except that the pattern can't be denied. He tries, he relapses, he goes back to Arkham. He tries to get better, he fucks it up. He tries to do better, he fucks that up too, and you wouldn't think it's possible; he can find a way not to blame himself for his issues, it's easy enough to push them on his family and childhood, but he can't--ignore the decisions he's made. The things he has... caused to happen. 

He will not care, when he's better-rested. He will brush this all off. It's only that, in the night, the doubt creeps in. And Jonathan, right next door, is the epicentre of it all. 

He came to Jonathan and practically asked if he could surrender control to him. Didn't help. You cannot surrender control you don't have. 

Nothing has changed. Nothing ever does. Since the day--since that day--when he was terrified beyond anything he's known since childhood, in that way animals are, where they will abandon their young and bite off their own limbs--he has followed, hoping to learn how to fear correctly, how to fear rationally. 

He draws his feet up onto the bed, shoes dropping to the floor, and rests his elbows on his knees. He's got scratchy facial hair growing in at the edges of his jaw and under his chin; he rakes his nails over it.

"Jonathan," he mutters.

He doesn't expect the thing to respond to the name, but it does. The noise stops.

"Yes?"

"I think I..."

The silence drags on for a moment. 

"You what?" 

"I think I want to talk to you again." 

He stares into the dark. It holds him, hides him, surrounds him. Black. Write. Raven. 

"You _are_ talking to me."

Eddie swallows. Yes, he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading:)


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